


Human Touch

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mycroft Feels, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sherlock Feels, Sibling Incest, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:46:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21681673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Sherlock finds out something about his brother that shocks him. He confronts him and things end up rather nice.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 34
Kudos: 131





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock threw his ringing phone onto the table, grimacing.

“Not answering?” John asked calmly.

“Nope.”

“Your mother again?” The doctor bent down to pick Rosie’s doll up. For the seventeenth time if Sherlock had counted correctly. The little girl, sitting on his left thigh, giggled and smashed the ugly thing against her father’s thin mouth as soon as he had handed it to her.

Not even that brought a smile to his face. Sherlock glowered at the phone as if that could make it stop ringing. It did. Only to ring again. Sherlock groaned.

“Want to ask about your sister, huh?” John smoothed Rosie’s unruly hair down. She was wearing a jumper, matching his – Molly’s idea.

“Your deductions are brilliant today,” Sherlock said, sourly. Of course she was calling to hear about Eurus. Probably rather for hearing why he didn’t visit her anymore.

“She won't give up.”

“She has for now.” God. Sherlock was so bored. Not a single case had come along for three days straight. He didn’t want to go to Bart's, either. Why did all women have such reproachful eyes? Why were they so demanding?

‘ _Sherlock, visit your sister, you are the grown-up.’_ Stupid!

‘ _Sherlock, you know you do love me, even though I forced you to say it first.’_ Bah. No, not really…

‘ _Sherlock, you are really old enough to do your laundry. I’m not your housekeeper!’_ But of course you are!

No cases, only boring experiments he could do from here… He had even start to _jog_ in the early morning hours to get rid of his unused energy. It was hateful.

“I don't like the new wallpaper,” Sherlock hissed, looking at the freshly done walls as if they were to blame for his misery.

John cleared his throat. “In fact it’s exactly the same one as before. It only looks newer.”

“And it stinks!”

John sighed. “All renovated rooms have an odd smell. It’s hardly there anymore.”

“Well, I do smell it so it is. And only _I_ roll my eyes in this house, John!”

“Ah!” John pointed at the door. “No. There is someone else coming who can do that very well.”

Sherlock had heard it, too. The knocker. Finally some distraction. But one that made him feel… weird.

“He hasn't been here since…”

“No. He hasn't,” Sherlock interrupted him, seriously.

“Well, it's not as if we'd missed him, huh?” John grinned but Sherlock didn’t return it.

Before he could say anything, the door of his flat – John hadn't moved in again, saying 221B was too small for him and Rosie and all of Sherlock's stuff now – opened up.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. Miss.” Mycroft politely nodded at Rosie, who was watching him with wide eyes, gnawing at her tiny fist.

John grinned, pleasantly surprised, and Sherlock felt his lips twitch as well. “Brother. What has brought you to my modest place?” A case, of course. Finally! He didn’t even feel like pretending he didn’t want to take it only to solve it behind his brother's back!

But Mycroft gave him a wry smile. “Mummy. She said…”

“Oh, I don't believe it! Isn't it _my_ bloody decision if I visit her or not?! You don't do it either, do you?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes when Mycroft winced.

“No. But as we have heard, _you_ are the grown-up and she will hardly want to see me.”

“That was bullshit, Mycroft, and we both know it! And Eurus doesn’t give a damn for my visits.” Sherlock vaguely registered that John and Rosie were looking from one to the other as if they were following a particularly strange tennis match. But really – all his life he had got criticised for being reckless and self-destructive, not even mentioning his drug-use, and all at once he was the sensible one? It was ridiculous.

Mycroft sighed. “Be that as it may but our mother…” He broke off when his phone signalised a call. He took it out of his coat pocket. “It's her.” He let his hand drop, not bothering to accept the call.

“Oh, Mr Holmes! Would you like tea?”

All three men turned to Sherlock's landlady, stunned. Mrs Hudson had never been so friendly to Mycroft. But then – he had saved her when Eurus had blown up the flat…

“That would be nice, thank you.” His tone was suspicious. He probably feared she would put something into his cup. Or simply spit into it…

Sherlock suppressed a smile at that ghastly thought.

“Give me your coat. You will stay for a while, won’t you?” Mrs Hudson more or less ripped Mycroft's coat from his body, and the powerful string puller let her, looking intimidated.

“Um, yes. Where are you putting this?”

“Ah, you will get it back; I’ll just hang it up for you. And I’ll be back in a minute with the tea. And yes, Sherlock – biscuits.”

A moment of silence followed her words and the men watched her leave. Then Rosie pulled John's ear and he cursed, making Sherlock chuckle and Mycroft smile slightly.

His brother looked rather weary, Sherlock realised. His face was even paler than usual and he had a tired if not depressed look in his eyes. He was dressed impeccably as always but his suit didn’t fit him that perfectly anymore. He had lost weight. There was no doubt he'd been having a hard time since Sherrinford.

“I do have a little problem I'd like to hear your opinion on though,” Mycroft said. He put his phone aside to get his notebook out of his jacket pocket.

Sherlock nodded. “Spit it out.”

He absently watched John going on all fours to play with Rosie and her doll on the carpet while listening to Mycroft's story about missing files and someone who might be a double agent. Not really his area but he did let Mycroft know his deductions, and Mycroft looked a bit happier when Mrs Hudson returned with a try full of cups, plates, and goodies.

She busied herself with making room for the cutlery and provided everybody with tea and biscuits. And Mycroft seemed to relax a bit (and Sherlock almost feared the cunning old woman had put something into his tea, but if she had, it didn’t make him feel bad so why not) and the atmosphere was surprisingly pleasant, and Mummy spared them any more pointless calls.

Twenty minutes later, Mycroft excused himself. “Thank you very much for your time and your advice, Sherlock, for the tasty tea, and for the conversation.” He grabbed his phone and soon John, Sherlock, and Rosie were alone again; Mrs Hudson had disappeared to take care of the leftovers and the dishes.

“He was really… nice?” John sounded surprised. He was sitting in his chair again, Rosie on his knees.

Sherlock gave him a wry smile. “He can be. When we were much younger, things were not so bad between us.” In fact he had regained a lot of memories of his childhood, memories he had buried in the depths of his mind along with the ones about Victor and Eurus. Mycroft had been a great big brother, bottom line. Perhaps things would get better between them now. “I think…” he began and then the phone on the table started to ring again. But it was not his ringtone.

John looked at the small black phone, confused, before he grinned. The phone had stopped making noise pretty fast. “Damn. He took yours. Text him so he comes back.” Sherlock picked up his brother's phone and saw that it wasn't locked. And that the call had come from Mummy, very unsurprisingly. John laughed. “He will kill you, you know? But look at his address book. Perhaps the Queen is in it!”

Sherlock didn’t care if his brother had the Queen's number. But he knew this phone had to contain all the secrets of the country. And it was the most personal item he could have got from Mycroft, and somehow it made him very curious. It was like… like holding Mycroft's _heart_ in his hand, and what kind of a silly thought was that?

When the phone rang in his hand, he almost dropped it. He accidentally accepted the call, coming not from his mother for a change but from someone called AA. Instead of ending it, he put the phone to his ear. “Hello?” _AA_ … It couldn’t mean what came to mind at once, could it? His brother might be a lot, but certainly he was not an alcoholic. But then… How he had been looking…

John shook his head. “What are you doing?” he hissed so Sherlock didn’t understand the man on the other end of the line.

“Who is there?”

“ _Mr Dawson-Taylor?”_

“Yes.” It wasn’t Mycroft's name either, was it? In fact the first part was their mother’s maiden name, and ‘Taylor’…From ‘tailor’'? A slight nod to Mycroft's favourite goldfish-people, the ones who provided him with his bespoke suits? Why a false name? An MI5 thing?

“ _Oh, great. Hello. I'm Francois. Angels Agency. I know you asked for Jordan, but he won't be available tonight. I…,”_ the young man giggled a bit nervously, _“look almost like him. So if it's okay for you, I could be at the flat at eight?”_

Sherlock was speechless. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say. John was glowering at him, clearly thinking that this was a bit not good.

“ _Hello? I've got the address.”_ He said it, and Sherlock recognised it as being just two houses away from the Diogenes Club.

Finally he found his voice back. “No. I have to cancel this appointment.”

“ _Oh. I hope… I mean… I can send you a picture of me?”_

The young voice sounded rather desperate, and Sherlock said, “It is nothing personal. I just won't be free.”

“ _Ah. Okay. Another time then.”_

“Sure. Thanks for calling. Bye.”

“ _Bye, Mr Dawson-Taylor.”_

Sherlock put Mycroft's phone onto the table again.

“What the hell was that?” John demanded to know. “You cancelled his date with someone?”

Sherlock couldn’t say it. It felt like betraying Mycroft at an unknown level. “It was Lady Smallwood,” he improvised, and John grinned. Sherlock had told him some weeks ago that the boss of the MI6 was very fond of his brother. And if he wasn't completely wrong, Mycroft was rather not-fond of her infatuation… Well, how should he. He was gay, and if Sherlock had needed another proof for this…

“Oh, I see. He will certainly be grateful for that.”

Sherlock nodded. Then he called his own number. He somehow had no interest in rummaging through Mycroft's contacts and files anymore. When Mycroft answered, sounding confused, he let him know that he had accidentally taken Sherlock's phone, and Mycroft apologised and said he would immediately return to give it back and fetch his own. A few minutes later, Sherlock was holding his phone in his hands and Mycroft was on his way to his Diogenes office again.

It had been very hard to maintain an indifferent façade. Mycroft had looked a bit suspicious but he had thanked him and hurried away a second after.

Sherlock had deleted the information about the call he had taken and he had gone downstairs, leaving John with Rosie, to see Mycroft. Only the missed call from their mother would be visible. So at eight pm Mycroft would be in this flat that certainly belonged to the government, probably used for secret meetings or special guests who didn’t want or couldn’t go into a hotel.

And Sherlock would be there, too. Until then he have would hopefully got over the shock that his brother was in the habit of hiring escort men…


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock had never seen such an ashen face before. Mycroft was looking at him as if he was close to suffering a heart attack.

He had figured out it was the penthouse flat since it was the only one without a name on the doorbell nameplate. The buzzer had shrilled as soon as he had rang the doorbell, a minute before eight. He had taken the stairs but he knew his heart wasn’t beating this fast only from walking five floors…

“Let’s go inside,” he said, sneaking into the flat.

Mycroft backed off, close to hyperventilating. He was wearing black trousers and a simple, light-grey shirt. No tie. No jacket. “Sherlock...”

He was still walking backwards and Sherlock stopped him by grabbing his arm before he could hit the wall. They had almost reached a door and he poked his head inside the room. A sparsely furnished living room with an armchair, a big black couch and a small table. He ushered Mycroft inside. “Sit down.” He gestured at the couch. “And calm down.”

Mycroft let himself drop onto the sofa with the look of a man who was awaiting his execution. Sherlock could hardly imagine his embarrassment. But really…

He sat down in the armchair. “Mycroft, what the hell are you doing?” He’d had hours to think about this and still he couldn’t get over it. “This is blackmailing material of the finest sort! Do you want the next Magnussen to use _that_ against you?”

Mycroft shook his head vehemently, not answering his question but simply refusing to acknowledge it.

Sherlock felt rage burning up in him. “You are using a false name but you were not very inventive, were you, and you gave them the number of the telephone you are using for your fucking important government job.” He couldn’t believe that Mycroft could be so careless. “And this flat… You must be out of your mind.” Did his brother really need to do this? He was a good-looking, wealthy man. There had to be a whole lot of men who would give their right arm to have sex with him. And the thought of Mycroft having sex made his vision go blurry.

“I did not,” Mycroft said so quietly that he was hard to understand. “I gave them a special number, and the call gets forwarded to this phone only when they call themselves.”

Sherlock should have thought about such a possibility. Still…

“And… this agency… gets used by the government regularly. They have men and women. For guests. Agents who need… distraction after doing field work. Very trustworthy. And this flat… is meant for this purpose. There’s a secret way in, only accessible from the Diogenes. And nobody else lives in this house. The other names are a ruse.” Mycroft sounded completely exhausted.

Okay. It all made sense. Obviously the men that were sent from this agency were checked through thoroughly then. No criminals. Healthy people. And if someone tried to blackmail anyone, well, probably they would disappear for good. And he had to admit he hadn’t found any information about this agency online so it was obviously not one for the common people.

“Still,” he said, stubbornly.

Suddenly Mycroft's eyes were filled with rage and something that was close to desperation. “Just leave, Sherlock. This isn’t a puzzle for you to solve and isn’t your business.”

“It is. You’re my brother! I won’t watch you doing this!”

“Nobody asked you to watch!” Mycroft shot back, blushing furiously in the next second, and Sherlock gaped at him at this remarkable statement – and then they both started to laugh.

Sherlock chuckled against his fist after the first wave of howling laughter had left him, his eyes met Mycroft's – and they laughed even louder. It was bordering on hysteria, but Sherlock could feel something in his chest loosen and Mycroft didn't look exhausted and done anymore, his eyes were sparkling.

They both slumped against their respective seating furniture when they had finally calmed down. Then Mycroft said softly, “I don’t ask you to understand it, Sherlock. I know it has to disturb you.”

Sherlock nodded. “It does. And… Perhaps… I just never thought you would even… want this. Sex.”

Mycroft smiled but it was a melancholic smile. “I am still human even though I do like to ignore or even deny that. And… it’s not only, not even mainly about the... sex. My right hand would be sufficient for that...”

Sherlock almost choked on his spit at this blunt remark and he laughed again, instantly joined by Mycroft. When he was able to speak again, he carefully said, “So… It’s just, more or less, human contact. Physical contact...” Because he doubted very much Mycroft would have any in depth conversations with those young escort boys… The one he had been speaking to had sounded as if he couldn’t be any older than twenty-two and he was certainly not the brightest bulb in the box. If Mycroft wanted that, he might indeed prefer Lady Smallwood. As long as she didn't come very close...

Mycroft nodded ever so lightly. “Once in a while… I do need that.” He looked at his phone that he had put onto the table. “And obviously I never meant for you to find out.”

Sherlock was suddenly overwhelmed by strong emotions. His brother, the Iceman, paying for… cuddling? snogging?… with some handsome, muscular boy because he couldn’t endure real intimacy. And with whom at all? And even if he wanted a relationship, which Sherlock doubted very much after this ‘once in a while’ – where and how would he meet such a person? He worked all day and he was basically always on duty, his brain never letting him go. Sherlock knew better than anyone how it was to live with such a brain. And feeling awkward around humans. He had friends, yes, but what did he really share with them? Did he talk about his emotions to John? To Lestrade? What did he even know about the DI? And Molly… She would certainly be someone he could talk to about feelings if he had known how to do that at all but her desperate love for him would forever stand between them. The only one he might be able to confide in was Mrs Hudson. But none of these people would ever be a love interest. He couldn’t exactly cuddle with ‘I’m not gay’ John. Even less with Lestrade.

He realised he had been quiet and completely out of the world when a glass of wine was handed to him and he looked into his brother’s lightly flushed, cautiously smiling face. “I thought you might like some.”

Sherlock took the glass. “Thank you.”

Mycroft sat down opposite of him again. “On unwanted revelations, shocks and weird Holmes men.”

“Hear, hear.” Sherlock took a sip and realised this was a really good wine. “He wouldn’t have been able to appreciate this wine. How much for the bottle?”

Mycroft shook his head, looking rather amused. “Twenty pounds, roughly. And they do like nice things, Sherlock.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Sorry?” Mycroft put his glass onto the table, and his hand was shivering.

“You heard me.” He didn't know where this had come from. But he knew he meant it. He took off his jacket.

“Sherlock...” Mycroft shook his head, and there was a flicker of terror in his eyes. And something else. As if he felt… caught? “This is not a good idea in the least.”

“How does he look? This Jordan-boy you asked for?” What Francois had said clearly hinted at Mycroft having a certain type.

Mycroft paled and he stood up. “You should really go back to Baker Street now. I...”

“He looks like me.” Why had he not understood this before? Well, because Mycroft had never shown him that he had such fantasies about him. But had his brother ever cared about anyone else than him? Not really.

“Sherlock, please, stop this...” Mycroft sounded as horrified as in the beginning, if not more.

Sherlock quickly moved over to the couch and pulled at Mycroft's hand so he sat down next to him, very reluctantly. “It’s okay, Mycroft. I understand you. I… really want this. Cuddle with you. And maybe...”

“No, this is impossible. Why? Why me?”

“Well, who else? I never do it, Mycroft. And… I’m not that man anymore who longed for being alone. I’ve opened up. To John. To Mrs Hudson. But there is no one. No one who…” Sherlock knew he could never put this in words. Instead he slung one arm around his brother, nuzzling his face against his shoulder in an awkward angle.

Mycroft froze for a moment but then he ever so lightly put his arm around Sherlock, turning so Sherlock’s face glided into the space between his shoulder and his head.

It felt… weird. Sherlock had never been so close to anyone – apart from Rosie but that hardly counted.

He was hyper aware of his brother’s closeness, his skin warm against his face, his scent pleasant and unique, his heart hammering against Sherlock's arm. And Sherlock knew if he had tried to get so physically close to someone else, he would have panicked. But this was Mycroft. The man who had taught him all about deductions and mind palaces, the man who had never let him down, no matter how cruel Sherlock had been to him. And it wasn’t only the jokes about the diet he hadn’t needed – it was mostly showing him that he didn’t need him and didn’t want him around. And Sherlock realised now how wrong this had been because now he was as close as he could get to his brother – well, almost as close… – and he felt strange and overwhelmed but also safe and cared for. And he couldn’t deny it – he had never been that safe with anybody else.

Lestrade was his provider of cases, a loyal friend but in the end he had done what he had been told – arresting him for being an alleged kidnapper, chasing him after he had broken free. His job and the law would always come first. And John… He was a good friend again but Sherlock could not rule out the possibility that he would turn against him again, as sad as it was. He had accepted the violence John had taken to as he had blamed himself for Mary’s death but he knew it had done some serious damage to their friendship. Molly had done a lot for him but he was sure she had mostly done it because she had subconsciously still hoped he would choose her. After all she had sidelined with John after Mary’s death when John hadn’t wanted to see him anymore. Mrs Hudson, yes, she was on his side and had always been. But she was like a mother for him. And Mycroft, his own flesh and blood, his actual brother… He had just disappeared behind this deliciously smelling, fabulously feeling and all-too-present man who was holding him in his arms, which were stronger than Sherlock had expected. His chest was rapidly moving when he turned his head to cradle both arms around Sherlock. He was so warm and his body was hard and soft at the same time, and Sherlock let his arms slide over his brother’s back, moving his right leg so it slid into the gap between Mycroft and the back of the couch, making his groin get in contact with Mycroft's thigh.

And he was hard. Both of them were, actually, he realised when he glanced at his brother’s groin. This was no brotherly cuddling. There was desire in Mycroft's eyes with the dilated pupils.

Sherlock gasped when he was deftly manoeuvred onto Mycroft’s lap, straddling him.

“Okay?” Mycroft asked, his arms firm around Sherlock’s waist, and it was very clear he would not do anything he thought could overwhelm him.

Sherlock wasn’t quite sure how he was feeling about his hard cock grinding against Mycroft's, but ‘okay’ was probably an understatement. It felt odd and scary and definitely alluring.

“This is crazy,” Mycroft whispered. “We should have never touched and we should certainly not be doing this.”

“You mean this?” Sherlock, feeling strangely brave, pushed against Mycroft's groin, and it sent an arousing shot through his penis.

“Yes. Exactly this… This wasn’t what you offered, was it?”

“I have no idea,” he admitted, his suggestion having basically come out of nowhere – or rather his subconscious. But Sherlock knew he didn’t want it to stop. He reached out to touch his brother’s glowing face with both hands. The kind gesture made him lose his balance though so his groin crashed against Mycroft's sensitive parts.

“Ouch,” they both brought out, and it made them grin and made some of the tension disappear.

“There is a bedroom, Sherlock. We don’t have to do anything more but it would be more comfortable.”

“Yes, let’s go there.” He and Mycroft. On a bed. About to make love because he would most definitely not stop here. And it felt like the completely natural thing to do.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have the - horribly sappy - last chapter of this story on this rainy Sunday. This will be the last fic from me for a while but I am writing a story, just won't have the time to seriously work on it. Real life is a bother!

On pretty shaky legs, Sherlock followed his brother into a moderately big bedroom with a queen size bed after taking off his shoes. It was very hard not to think of Mycroft sharing it with men he was paying for their attention. Not only because it woke up some weird kind of jealousy in him. How had Mycroft had to feel with them? The substitutes for what he thought he could not have? How many months, if not years, had he been fighting these urges before he had given in and met one of those men?

Sherlock scrambled onto the bed, immediately snuggling against his brother. They looked into each other’s eyes – and then they kissed, and it was in this moment that Sherlock knew there would never be another Jordan or Francois or whoever anymore. The kiss was sweet and tender and clumsy – on his part – and it touched his very core. The feeling of Mycroft's tongue gently meeting his was odd but not unpleasant, and his brother’s mouth tasted like wine and toothpaste and uniquely Mycroft. Feeling bolder, Sherlock hurled himself into the second kiss, deepening it, and he was quickly learning the technique, letting himself be guided in a slow but passionate rhythm.

His hand fumbled with the buttons of Mycroft's shirt until Mycroft took care of taking it off himself, and Sherlock stared at the furry chest he was revealing while impatiently fumbling with his own clothing. Mycroft was slimmer than he had ever seen him, his ribs clearly visible, his stomach not as sculpted as his own but flat and also covered with black hair that felt both soft and wiry under his curious touch. Naked but for their pants, their hands started to explore each other’s bodies in earnest, Mycroft's eyes constantly asking if he was fine with this.

As a matter of fact, he definitely was.

*****

Mycroft gazed at his little brother’s upper body, feeling overwhelmed with tenderness and reverence. This was not the body of one of the young men he had taken to this bed before. They had been smooth and flawless and they had been the substitute for this man who had been through so much. The chest he was caressing was scarred, showing a life full of adventures, misjudging people and situations; the life of a man who would always give his best, always do what he thought was right, no matter how much it made him suffer. Perhaps he had seen the young, more innocent Sherlock in his paid lovers for an hour or two. Now that he was confronted with the reality, he felt his heart swell with an almost unbearable love for this middle-aged man who had gone through hell so many times and come out, littered with scars inside and outside, even stronger than before.

His fingers graced the thickest scar of all – the shotgun wound, inflicted by Mary Watson. Only a few days after Sherlock had been brought to hospital Mycroft had learned how close it had been. Sherlock had been practically dead. He knew he wouldn’t have survived it either if Sherlock had died.

So often it had been close. The drugs, chasing criminals without backup. It had been as if Sherlock had chased death himself but it had always looked the other way in the end.

“Not quite as pretty as your boys, huh?” Sherlock said with a hint of sadness, and Mycroft kissed the scar beneath his heart.

“No. You are so much more beautiful than them.”

Sherlock stared at him, his look going soft, and he reached out to caress Mycroft's bottom lip. “Liar.”

“No. I would never lie to you.” Mycroft smiled down at him and his heart clenched when Sherlock smiled back.

“Show me, brother. Show me what I can do to make you feel much better than anyone else before did.”

Of course his sheer presence was already doing this. And his hand, which was playing with his furry chest now, felt amazingly good. But Mycroft knew what he wanted to do now. “Let me love you.” He didn’t care about sounding sappy and sentimental. When Sherlock was concerned, he was exactly that, had always been, and he knew he didn’t have to hide it anymore.

“Yes. Love me, Mycroft.” Sherlock didn’t sound embarrassed at all.

So Mycroft proceeded to take him apart.

*****

It was hard to not be jealous of the men who had been the recipients of Mycroft's ministrations before. But of course Sherlock knew he had not been like this with them – there was too much emotion in his eyes, the pressure of his lips, the caresses of his hands. Every kiss, every gesture said, ‘I love you’, loud and clear, and wasn’t it a miracle? Sherlock had treated his brother with contempt and nastiness for practically decades. And he had never really questioned why Mycroft still had his back. He had been an idiot, a heartless, selfish idiot, had even thrown into Mycroft's face that John was _family_. Which he decidedly was not.

Not just because they didn’t share any genes – if this was the reason, he would consider Eurus a part of his family, and in every sense that counted, she wasn’t. And neither was John. The only one who had never let him down was Mycroft, and that he was also his brother linked them by blood of course – and made this act a rather forbidden one, not that he cared – but mostly Mycroft was his family because he loved him. It was as easy as this. And the thought of Mycroft buying company because he thought he couldn’t have him made his heart heavy.

“Mycroft...” he said, forcefully.

His brother, who had been doing marvellous things to his right nipple, looked up. “Sherlock? Do you want me to stop?”

It would take a lot of time to get this cautiousness out of him. Sherlock knew he would never do anything he didn’t like. But this was not the point he wanted to make now and he doubted Mycroft could even do something he didn’t enjoy. “No. I like that very much. But you need to promise me something...”

“Oh. Of course. No escort men anymore. No other men at all,” he hurried to add, smiling sheepishly. “If you want to continue this at all. Not that I would want anyone else anymore anyway, even if…”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock interrupted him softly.

“Sorry. I’m babbling, huh?”

“You are. No problem.” Sherlock smiled at him. “And I do want to continue this, of course I do. And I would appreciate if you lost this agency’s number. But what I meant to say… Promise me that you will never doubt you are important to me. In fact you are the most important… thing in my life.” He blushed a bit. “I say ‘thing’ because I don’t mean only ‘person’. You are more important than my cases, than anything, basically.” He saw Mycroft's doubtful eyes and he knew he deserved this. “I mean… I will not endanger myself that much anymore.”

“That would be most convenient,” Mycroft said, raising his left eyebrow, and he sounded and looked more like the brother he knew again than he had all evening, which made him smile.

He didn’t want them to walk on eggshells around each other. They were still the Holmes brothers. They hadn’t changed completely, even though he did feel quite changed after what had happened already. “Don’t ever think again that John is more important to me than you. I know you got this impression...” Mycroft looked as if he wanted to say something but he shut his mouth again. Sherlock nodded. “I am aware. I was ghastly to you. I won’t be again.”

Mycroft took his hand and kissed it, and the gesture was so sweet that Sherlock gasped. It didn’t make him feel embarrassed. It was just so new – them being sentimental. But he could get used to this…

“My dear,” Mycroft said, smiling. “We will face difficulties. We have fulfilled our roles for so long. But we will work on it. I never thought I would get this chance...”

“Neither did I. And now...”

“Yes. Now let me show you how much this chance means to me...” And he was all over Sherlock again within the blink of an eye, and Sherlock slumped into the pillows and was surprised by his own deep moan when his plump cock was engulfed by the hotness and the wetness of Mycroft's capable mouth.

*****

Was there a special place in hell for sucking his own little brother’s penis? If so, Mycroft was willing to go there just to have this pleasure again and again. Of course he had been feeling guilty for wanting Sherlock for longer than he wanted to admit, but now that it was really happening, this feeling seemed to be a lifetime away. He was inhaling his brother’s bittersweet, musky scent while he was letting his thick, hard appendage glide into his throat. He had not done this very often as it just felt too intimate but he had discovered long ago that his gag reflex was very manageable. He deep-throated Sherlock with ease and he was drinking in his pearls of pre-come along with his gasps and quiet moans, which were music to his ears. The pride he was feeling for making his brother enjoy himself like this, knowing he had never given himself to someone else, the feeling of being appreciated and desired (because Sherlock was constantly grabbing his shoulder, playing with his nipples, scratching his furry chest) – it was literally a dream come true.

And he felt nothing but joy when he was unceremoniously pushed aside and manhandled onto his back and Sherlock told him it was his turn now. Gladly, he gave himself to his brother’s curious lips, searching hands, and he didn’t protest when Sherlock started to suckle at his knob with scratching teeth. Sherlock was very bright and he would learn fast – and a few minutes of trial and error later, Sherlock was sucking him greedily, and Mycroft encouraged him with words of desire and all endearments he could think of, all those long-suppressed sentiments forging ahead, and he knew it was welcome, as miraculous as it seemed as it all had happened so fast. But then, they were the brothers Holmes. They did nothing like the normal goldfish. They made decisions in the speed of light and followed them. At least Sherlock had always done that. Usually, Mycroft thought everything over, turning it in his head again and again, if it was something of high importance. And nothing had ever felt more important to him and still he didn’t need this time now. Because this wasn’t thinking. It was feeling and enjoying and risking, and he knew, really knew it would all be fine.

“I want you to take me, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, his lips swollen and wet with his spit and Mycroft's pre-seminal fluids.

It was too fast, of course it was. But when had Mycroft ever refused Sherlock something he really wanted? And that he wanted it was very clear. “Okay. There is lubricant in the drawer. I think it’s better for you to be on top of me for the first time. I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”

Sherlock grinned down on him. “So I’m going to ride you?”

“Let me be your horse,” Mycroft joked.

“Brother – with your size, you most definitely are!”

Mycroft laughed. “You’re just as big, little brother. And I will prepare you thoroughly. Hand me the lube, will you?” He caught the bottle with his right hand. “Turn around. Show me your lovely hole.”

“Damn, Mycroft. Never thought you would say such things. But somehow I never knew you anyway.”

“In some ways, that might be true. But I hope that on some level, you’ve always known I care about you. And Sherlock – never doubt you are more important than my job, too.” He meant it. If there ever came the time when he had to choose, and considering how forbidden their new relationship was this could happen anytime, he would always choose this, even if that meant moving to a jungle or a desert and hide under a rock together.

Sherlock smiled. “The Queen wouldn’t like to hear that.”

“The Queen can...”

“No, she can, in fact, not!” Sherlock hissed playfully, and they both burst out laughing again, and it felt equally as great as every physical enjoyment.

And then his hand touched Sherlock's forbidden spot for the first time, and reverently, he caressed and massaged it with lube-sticky fingers until it opened up for him, and if he had felt so inclined, he would have thought that invading Sherlock's most private space felt almost… like a holy act, and if this was blasphemy, he didn’t care at all.

*****

It did feel as if he had, well, a stick up his arse. Quite a thick, one, too. His body was protesting against this unknown intrusion but Sherlock ignored that. Mycroft was below him but sitting up so his arms were wrapped around his waist, keeping him from losing his balance, and Sherlock was cautiously moving up and down, Mycroft's hips meeting his thrusts, his own hands resting on his brother’s shoulders to stabilize himself. It felt weird and intriguing and arousing, and when Mycroft's right hand moved southwards to tickle that piece of skin that was stretched around his thick member, Sherlock almost keeled over.

“God, that feels great.”

“Yes?” Mycroft teased, doing it again, and Sherlock felt his head lolling back by itself.

The pressure was even stronger now, and he had moved into it so Mycroft was penetrating him in a slightly different angle, and Sherlock moaned his ecstasy to the ceiling when this spot inside him was nudged against repeatedly.

A moment later he found himself on his back and gaped up at his brother. “Is that okay?” Mycroft asked him, his ministrations interrupted for now.

“Yes,” Sherlock rumbled. “Fuck me. And make sure you hit that thing inside me.”

Mycroft smirked. “It’s your prostate, to be precise.” And he proceeded to hit it again and again while thrusting slowly but deeply into him, and Sherlock felt as if he was torn in two, not by pain but by arousal.

Mycroft lowered down on him so his stiff cock was trapped between their bodies but Sherlock liked this exquisite sort of pain and he greedily kissed Mycroft back when he claimed his mouth in a sloppy kiss, his arms wrapped around Mycroft's neck, his legs in the same position around his waist. They were connected in the most intimate way now and Sherlock had never felt so… safe. He whispered these words into his brother’s ear and it was this what seemed to push Mycroft over the edge, and he groaned into Sherlock's mouth when he came, filling him with a strong eruption of warm fluid, and he hardly took the time to enjoy his climax until he disentangled from Sherlock to suck him again, and Sherlock followed him just a minute later, releasing himself into Mycroft's mouth.

He was sticky and he could feel the semen trickling out of his arse, and he lazily wondered who would clean up but all he cared about right now was his brother, holding him close, and he smiled when Mycroft kissed him.

“I love you, little brother.”

“Of course you do.” Sherlock stroked over his face. “And I love you. And I hope you’ll be up to a second round very soon.”

Mycroft grinned. “Oh dear. Okay. I will see if my middle-aged body can pull that off.”

“Ah, I’ll make it.” And Sherlock nuzzled his face against Mycroft's neck, dozing off for now, feeling content and satisfied – and as safe as he could get.

The End


End file.
